Moments later, the door of Mitchel's office creaked open again.

A figure entered, sporting sunglasses and a stern countenance.

Mitchel acknowledged the man with a nod. “Please, take a seat. My apologies, I can't rise."

"It doesn't matter," the man replied.

Mitchel's tone remained reserved. "I entrust Raegan's care to you. Regarding the revised will, if my mother remains unconscious, everything is to be handed to Raegan and Janey."

The man's smile held a hint of melancholy. "It sounds as though you're bidding farewell."

Mitchel smiled serenely. “I prefer to prepare for all eventualities.”

Approaching, the man laid a comforting hand on Mitchel's shoulder.

“Your woman, you should guard her yourself."

"I hope I can," Mitchel responded nonchalantly. "There's one more matter."

"What?"

"If I met my end, do not disclose my will until five years later, unless absolutely necessary."

The man furrowed his brows, puzzled by the directive. "Five years."

"Yes, five years," Mitchel stated, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The golden hues of the setting sun cast a glow upon his chiseled features, rendering him just as striking as ever.

In a subdued tone, Mitchel explained, “Five years, 1825 days precisely. Psychologists suggest that within this time frame, people can reconcile with forgetting. By then, Raegan may not recall me as vividly or harbor the same sorrow."

A thoughtful silence hung in the air before the man sighed. "Truly, the Dixon men are hopeless romantics."

Mitchel rose, his steps faltering visibly. Days had found him dependent on stimulants to stay upright, his fragility a stark contrast to his former vitality.

Once steadied, Mitchel retrieved a document from the safe, urging, “Inside is a letter I've penned. Present it to Raegan alongside the will."

The man hesitated, suspicion clouding his features. "Mitchel, are there other matters you keep from me?"

Expression unchanged, Mitchel replied, “Preparing for contingencies."